Page 17 of The Kiss of Deception

My eyes shut. My muscles relax. My breath slows. I’m two seconds from falling asleep on my feet when thunder stirs me up. Apparently, my stomach still demands a detour before bed.

Body covered by goosebumps and a white towel, I pad barefoot through the heated floors, absently running a microfiber towel through my hair to towel dry my curls and considering the cereal selection currently available in my pantry.

Somewhere along the way, a rich smell triggers my salivary glands—and a furrow between my eyebrows. My sole meal of the day consisted of a chicken and avocado bagel and black coffee approximately ten hours ago, but I don’t think I’m at the hallucination stage of starvation yet.

The next second, my confusion turns to terror when I see a broad back. I jump back and scream—and through my own noises, I think I hear a shriek tear from him too.

Miles fumbles with the spoon he just fished out of the drawer, an effort that resembles juggling, barely able to catch it, as it bounces from hand to hand before landing solidly in his palm.

“Do you have ninja feet or somet—” Miles turns with a hand on his chest. Then, abruptly, that hand falls, spoon clattering to the floor.

For the longest moment, he doesn’t blink. Gray gaze stays glued on me, burning so intense that I almost feel naked.

Which reminds me that I’m one towel away from actually being naked.

The goosebumps, which at some point had disappeared, return. Sharper under his scrutiny. I clutch the towel to my body, a shield in more ways than one.

“What the fuck are you doing here? How did you get in?”

He blinks. He finally blinks and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“I brought you dinner.” Miles smiles, but it isn’t quite right. His jaw is tight, his eyes don’t crinkle around the corners, his dimples don’t flash. “Hope you like lasagna,” he adds, clearing the roughness from his voice.

A steaming dish sits on the island next to a plate and a glass of water. I want to refuse. I want to scream he has no business being here, breaking and entering. But, also, I don’t want to turn down a good meal—because that lasagna does sound and smell so much better than a bowl of cereal. I am a hostage of my stomach.

In the small seconds I war with myself, Miles retrieves the spoon from the floor and turns to the sink.

“Hurry up and put some clothes on before it gets cold,” he says, washing the spoon with more force than needed.

This would normally be the breaking point where I would snap. That hasn’t earned a successful track record. Perhaps a change in tactic is overdue.

Two can play the game.

“Maybe I don’t want to put some clothes on.” He freezes, like the cold water violently battering his hands under the faucet spreads to his entire body. “Maybe I usually eat dinner just like this, clad in a towel, still hot and so wet.”

We stand like that for seconds that seem centuries. A small infinity.

The clock ticks on the wall, the seconds heavy with my provocation hanging in the air. Miles breathes in slow, measured puffs.

When he spins slow, slow, slowly, it seems like an eternity has passed and all the droplets have evaporated—or maybe they’re boiling on my skin.

“Zoe,” Miles rasps my name, rough and guttural, his broad shoulders bigger and tenser as his hands splay carefully on the island between us.

A sharp thrill shoots through my spine. A twisted sense of victory from having successfully made him uncomfortable. That the smirks, the teasing, the innuendo have been turned on him.

His hands, his massive hands with long elegant fingers and protruding veins, all splayed and strong holding himself, biceps flexing with his grips. His eyes are silver lava, flickering shadows I can’t blame on the long lashes, cheekbones carved from marble.

A different sort of thrill races through my veins, slower, thoroughly scorching, as I see him in a whole different light. A beast bursting at the seams, the stitches of his own skin and his sweatshirt. Predator studying prey. A man who wanted something he didn’t want to want.

“Go put some clothes on before I sit you on your knees and spoon feed you myself.”

I don't hate Miles Blackstein.

Hate is a strong word and I refuse to waste my precious time and energy on him—either entertaining thoughts of slapping the smirk off his face or choking his salacious jokes down his throat or kissing his muscled ass, as most do.

I don’t particularly appreciate his existence most of the time.

Mostly, I don’t like the person I become around him; someone I don’t recognize.

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